


Mustard

by mat



Category: 21st Century CE RPF, Community (TV), Diagnosis Murder, Resident Alien (TV 2021), Riverdale (TV 2017), Twin Peaks
Genre: Asynchronous Narratives, Colorado, Flashbacks, Gen, Murder Mystery, POV First Person, POV Third Person, Parenthood, Sci-fi/fantasy, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-07
Updated: 2021-03-12
Packaged: 2021-03-13 14:14:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29902314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mat/pseuds/mat
Summary: When Jeff Winger is shot dead, Detective Jones, an experienced, celebrated private investigator, is tasked with solving the crime. But in a case like no other, he has no idea just how much will be required to find the truth.
Kudos: 3





	1. Crime Scene

Jeff sat at the first bar he could find, nursing his bruised ego. It was a dingy place, dark and cold. Just what he needed. It had been a long day and right then the feeling of his soft fingers against his temple was as much comfort as the scotch working its way into his belly and mind. He almost didn't notice the only other visitor to the bar that night walk through the door. But when he did, he looked up and stood to attention when he saw who it was.  
"It's you. What do you want?" he quizzed arrogantly. The alcohol had seeped its way into his system enough to dull his reflexes to the point that he didn't even see the gun raise towards him. Just felt the heat dig its way through his toned abs and heard the last sound he'd ever hear: the silencing blast of sound echoing through his head. As he fell to the ground, he thought about his dad. As a professional slacker, unfinished business was his specialty, but this last piece filled his dying moments with regret.

I got the call at 1am, my busiest hour. It was sweet, too, because I was just finishing up the paperwork for my last case, a diamond heist gone south. Three dead perps, no diamonds. No problem for a guy like me. Just another night on the town. This next case, though, would be no walk in the park. It was a hit and run. The victim was hit with a bullet and the killer literally ran away. That kind of hit and run. I don't take many vehicular manslaughter cases. 

The scene of the crime: a little corner bar called The 59. The cops had secured the area, so it was time for me to mark my territory. I approached the officer by the door with a cool confidence.  
"This is my turf, Sloan. Make some room for the big guns."  
"Back off, Jones," he replied, taking a step forward and pointing a finger in my face. I could smell his aftershave. Cheap. "You may have special protection from the senator, but you can't just walk into any crime scene you want." He was right; as a decorated private eye, the senator had given me allowances not usually provided to those in my trade. And I couldn't just walk into any crime scene I wanted. But this time, I was invited.  
"Senator faxed over a warrant," I said slickly, pulling out the papers and shoving them against his chest. "Read 'em and weep."  
"You'll slip up one day, Jones," he sneered as I walked past him into the bar. "Mark my words. Then you'll be all mine." He said some more stuff, but I was already inside, surveying the scene.

The interior of the bar was brightly lit, an unfamiliar state for this type of establishment. Usually people come here to have their lives dimmed, but today all the lights were turned on to shed some light on this ghastly crime. Lying on the floor was the corpse, one Jeff Winger according to his ID, smartly dressed with a bloody bullet hole in the abdomen, piercing a buttoned-up shirt. In the back corner of the room, sitting at a booth, were the only other people apart from no-name crime scene investigators going about their work. I stepped over the body and approached the two to introduce myself.  
"Ah, P.I. Jones, I wondered when you'd arrive." He spoke before I got the chance. Always one step ahead. He was facing in my direction, but I thought he'd be too distracted with his precious note taking.  
"Officer Tortuga. This is my case now," I replied forcefully.  
"Of course it is," Tortuga spat in agitation. "It was only a matter of time before the senator called his lackey in on this. Well, here's your witness." He gestured to the woman sitting across from him. She turned and smiled uncomfortably. "D'Arcy Bloom, she's a bartender here. Didn't see much, but have at her." He stood up and adjusted his waistline. Raising his voice, he called across the room. "All right, people, pack it up when you're done. This is the good P.I.'s job now. I'll see you back at the office." He gave me a look of disdain as he shuffled past on his way out the door. I took his seat and looked over the witness. Pretty, brunette, a little attitude. The bartender type. I hoped she wouldn't give me any trouble. It was 2am and I wasn't in the mood for games.

"Sorry to bother you, miss, I know you've been through a lot." She tried to smile in response. "I'm Detective Jones, I'm going to need to ask you a few questions about what you saw tonight. I know you just told most of it to Tortuga, but as you may have noticed, we don't have the best relationship and he seems to have neglected to leave his copious notes for me. So we'll have to start from the beginning."  
"It's okay," she said calmly. "I'm used to it. I give police statements more than you might imagine; it can get pretty rowdy in here sometimes. Stuff happens."  
"Your name's D'Arcy? Is it okay to call you that?"  
"Yeah, it's fine. Aren't you going to be taking notes like your colleague?"  
"Oh, I'm not 'a police' as they'd say on The Wire. I'm a private detective. Yep, workaday cops may need to write things down, but I keep it all up here," I said coolly, tapping my temple. "How long have you been working here?"  
"Two years. It doesn't sound that long, but it's become like a home to me."  
"A rowdy home," I added. She smirked. "Get many murders?"  
"This would be the first," she said, turning her head 90 degrees, daring herself to catch a glimpse of the body lying on the floor.  
"Can you tell me in your own words what happened here tonight?"  
"There's not much to tell from my perspective. It was a quiet night, just the one guy here. The dead guy. I'd never seen him before tonight." She swallowed and collected her thoughts. "It was about 11pm and I was working over there," she gestured with her head, "Facing away from the guy. He seemed to want to be alone, so I was catching up on some paperwork. Inventory stuff. It was quiet so I was the only one working and it was just the two of us. I didn't hear the door, but someone must have come in. I heard a gunshot and I think it took me a few seconds to turn around. I guess I was stunned. I knew it was a gun, trust me. When I turned, the door was still just closing. I guess the shooter ran out." She fumbled a napkin in her fingers, staring at it intensely but not seeing it. "I ran around to the other side of the counter and saw the guy lying on the ground. He was kinda convulsing or something, you know? So I ran over and I saw he was bleeding, so I pulled out my phone and called 911. They told me to put pressure on the wound and I did, but he didn't last long. Paramedics came, but they left the body for the police since he was already gone, I guess."  
"Seeing the position of the body does give us more of a sense of the crime. Was it you who found his ID?"  
"Maybe it's silly, but I took out his wallet to pay for his drinks. I was worrying about work while there was a dead guy lying on the ground. Right there." She took a breath and looked me in the eyes. A puppy dog stare. "Am I just awful?"  
"You were in shock. It calms people to return to routine in times of panic. I notice you don't have blood on your hands. When did you wash them?"  
"Oh, before being interviewed by the last cop... I mean, by the cop. Sorry. I know you're not a cop. He gave me some time to breathe before the interrogation. I went into the bathroom and cleaned my hands." Then there should be some money in the register that has the vic's blood on it, I thought. Should make it easy to corroborate the timing of her story.  
"Sorry if he gave you a rough time. We're just looking for answers. If you find any, give me a call. Here's my card." I reached into my pocket to take out my metal card case but was interrupted by a commotion at the door.

"Is it true?" a voice called. It was a broad. A blonde with legs that quit as soon as they learned how much work was involved. She cried out and dropped to her knees, shaking the corpse to within an inch of its death. "Jeff! Jeff, you can't be dead! You hear me? You wake up and stop faking right now! I don't know what type of ploy this is, but you stop it right now!" I let her say all that before interrupting.  
"Hey, lady, stop!" I rushed over and pulled her to her feet, reducing her to tears.  
"He's dead," she sobbed. "He's really dead!" I gripped her wrists, trying not to transfer blood from her hands to my overcoat, and dragged her over to a nearby seat.  
"Please, sit. Get ahold of yourself. Stop rubbing your hands over all the evidence." I looked up and noticed a second figure standing in the doorway. A slender, Middle Eastern looking nerdy guy. Imagine the opposite of Meat Loaf and you'll be pretty close. He was just staring down at the body, blankly.  
"Oh, Abed!" The woman I was attending to ran over to the new visitor, blanketing him in a hug, almost clinging to his body for comfort. He remained standing stiffly.  
"It's okay," he said.  
"What?" she replied.  
"It's okay, Britta. It's not the real Jeff, he's just a clone."  
"Oh, Abed," she said, gripping him tighter.  
I stood up. "Okay, show's over, folks, this is a crime scene." Abed looked at me as Britta continued crying on his shoulder.  
"Jeff's our friend. How can we help?"  
"Right now, you can help by standing outside. Were you contacted by the police?" I asked.  
"I was listed as his emergency contact," Britta said painfully.  
"Please, step outside. I do want to talk to both of you, but we're getting in the way of these investigators." I gestured around the room to the many non-characters hard at work, dusting and photographing and such. It takes a village. "Oh, you can go," I called to D'Arcy, who was still sitting in the back of the room. "Just don't leave the country."

I took the two outside onto the cold, dark Colorado street. The snow had been building up for days and didn't seem near stopping. Abed interrupted my thoughts on the weather by blurting out "I wanna help you catch Clone!Jeff's killer."  
"Abed..." Britta sighed, wiping away her tears.  
"What's the relationship between both of you and the deceased?" I asked.  
"We were in a study group," Britta explained. "It's complicated."  
"Do you know Greendale Community College?" asked Abed.  
"Is that the place that exploded because too many people farted at once?"  
"That's just an urban legend," said Britta. "It was actually caused by a gas leak in the septic system."  
"Yeah, everyone remembers the gas leak year," Abed said. "Well, parts of it. But it was a great school. It's where we all met. Those of us who aren't clones, anyway."  
"Why do you think Jeff was cloned?" I asked.  
"Ignore him," said Britta dismissively.  
"No, really, I'm interested."  
"Jeff's been acting really strange lately," began Abed, gesturing with his hands. "He's been avoiding me a lot more than usual and hanging out by himself a lot." He smiled. "I didn't mean that literally, but it works that way, too, because it would still be hanging out with himself if he was hanging out with his clone. Get it?"  
"I get it," I said. "That's smart."  
"Yeah, so anyway, Jeff's always scheming and up to something. Kind of like Kenan and Kel. 'You gotta watch Kenan, 'cause Kenan be schemin'.'" He moved his hands as he rapped the words. "You ever watch that show?"  
"Never."  
"Well this is exactly the type of thing Jeff would do. Worry his friends by not informing us of his plans to fake his own death ahead of time. I'd say it was Evil!Jeff from the Worst Timeline, but I noticed the body has both its arms."  
"You're a smart guy," I said, which got an eye roll from Britta in response.  
"Abed can sometimes have a tenuous connection to reality at best.”  
"What do you say you tag along on my investigation?" I asked, ignoring Britta. "I'm always looking for someone unreasonably close to the case to assist me. You seem like the perfect fit. You could be like... Like the Reggie to my Inspector." Abed's eyes lit up.  
"Oh, don't tell me you-" began Britta before my interruption.  
"Here are my details," I said, boldly thrusting a stiff, bone white piece of card from its metal sheath. "Let me know if you're interested." And with that, I was walking away, sure he'd take the bait.

"Abed, don't tell me you're considering this. Trust me, I'm a trained psychiologist. Jeff's body is still warm behind that very door! You need some closure. You need to confront the reality of this situation, not run off on some adventure."  
"I know he's not really a clone," Abed said calmly, looking down at the card in his hands. "The stages of grief exist for a reason, please don't push me straight to acceptance before I'm ready. There's been a lot of loss. Pierce, Troy, Shirley. I know myself. What I need. Let me have this adventure in denial before my world comes crashing down around me, okay?"  
"Abed..." Britta said in a small, resigned voice. "Okay."  
"Thank you," Abed said. She saw a bittersweet smile on his face. "Hey, detective, wait up!"


	2. From The Beginning

Long ago, years before Detective Jones began his quest to discover the identity of the killer, Jeffrey Winger was discovering his own new identity as a law teacher. He wasn't a good teacher - he took no pride in his work and none of his students ever went on to pass the bar - but that's who he was. Jeffrey Winger was a law teacher. His whole sense of self was bound up in his profession. He'd spent years of his life working (or at least his version of working) to get his legal license back. After losing it because it was discovered that he had no college degree, he didn't just lose his job as a lawyer. He lost his identity. Who was he back then if not a lawyer? Who was he now if not a teacher? As much as he built up his exterior image, there was still a hollowness within him. At least with a good job, he could pretend there was something meaningful on the inside. His sense of vanity was so great that his most prized possession was a faucet he'd spent months tracking down just to put the finishing touches on his perfect apartment. Not that any of the women he brought home really appreciated it. It was all just for himself, even the carefully manufactured facade. That was what he valued.

Jeff had friends, sure, but he was never truly satisfied. For the longest time, he saw them as a nuisance. They were a clingy, enmeshed group who depended on him for everything. Then, when they were finding identities of their own and growing as people, they started drifting apart. It was a lot of loss. They didn't need him anymore. First he was stuck with them, then he was stuck without them. They were his family, that much he had to admit. Even before his father died he considered them his only living relatives. A true kinship, the truest he'd ever known. Annie, Shirley, Pierce, Troy, Abed, Britta. He knew each of them and they knew him, more than anyone else. Pierce's death was a big hit to all of them, but it was something they dealt with together, something they went through together. He'd never experienced grief like that before, as a group activity. If nothing else, it was an act of bondage that confirmed they'd be connected for life.

Now, Jeff was on his own, teaching law and loving it. After the Greendale campus was destroyed in the gas leak explosion, the college merged with the nearby City College and Jeff was able to keep his job. It was the ultimate blow off class; he didn't expect anything from his students and they didn't expect anything from him. Well, mostly. There was always one student who wanted to actually "learn law" and "benefit from their education". This year, that wet blanket was Annie Kim. She had ambitions once upon a time, but eventually she figured out that she just liked learning, so she was taking laps around City College's courses until she'd had her fill. Now that she'd worked her way onto law, the burden of satiating Annie Kim's need for education landed on the desk of the put-upon Prof. Winger. No more exams that were just graded drinking contests.  
"Professor Winger, what does Roe v. Wade teach us about legal precedent in modern courts?" She held up her hand, but didn't wait to speak. Not that she was interrupting, unless you count Jeff's game of Flappy Bird.  
"Great question, Annie," Jeff replied without looking up from his phone. "Class, does anyone have an answer? No? Well, I guess you're out of luck, Annie."  
"Actually, Professor, I was hoping for an answer from you."  
"I'm a teacher; I don't answer questions, I ask them. If you want answers, go to Google."  
"Did someone say 'Poodle'?" The voice came from the back of the classroom.  
"No, nobody said..." Jeff started before blinking and looking up from his phone. "Wait a minute, you're..."  
"Jeffrey!" The voice was chirpy and excited. It came from someone who'd burst extravagantly through the back door wearing what appeared to be a sexy firehouse dog costume. "What a sight for sore deans!"  
"Dean Pelton? But I thought you-"  
"Died in a deansplosion?" The dean countered, sauntering down the aisle towards Jeff. "Well, it was nice to have a break while everyone thought I was dead, but I just couldn't stand to see what City College was doing to this school. My school! Plus, it's hard to pay your bills when you're legally dead, so I've been sleeping in your car at night-"  
"You what?!"  
"-and that was just getting exhausting. And if all that wasn't bad enough, my membership at the costume store expired and I had to go to Party City. Can you believe the only fireman dog costumes they had were poodles? It's ridiculous!"  
Jeff stood up to address him. He'd had enough experience with Greendale and the people surrounding it to not be too surprised by the dean's resurrection, but that didn't mean he had to put up with his old employer's antics. He was finally free. "Dean, it's nice to know you're alive," he said through gritted teeth.  
The dean bent a knee in response and tossed back one of the puffed up ears dangling from the costume's hat. "Why, thank you!"  
"But what are you doing here?"  
"Well," he replied, struggling to settle into one of the empty seats, "since I lost my job and I don't have any other prospects, I decided to enroll and gain some life skills. Did you know City College has something called Advanced Ladders? That seemed a little above my pay grade right now, so I thought I'd start with something simple, like Law." Jeff slumped back into his chair, defeated. "What are we learning about today, those wigs the judges wear? Fun!"

After class, as Jeff was walking across campus from his classroom to his car, another unwelcome addition came back into his life. Annie Edison. An old friend, an old flame, an old memory. One he was trying to forget. She now worked for the FBI, she'd moved on to bigger and better things. He was working to do the same for himself. Or at least end his pining. The call came from an unknown number, so he'd answered it without thinking.  
"Hi, Jeff." She needn't introduce herself, needn't explain. Her voice carried with it all the information Jeff needed.  
"Oh, Annie, hi. Are you okay?" He knew she wasn't, but he needed something to say, something to express other than muted surprise. He wasn't ready to hear her voice again, but she needed him.  
"Did you know it takes, on average, three months to plan a terrorist attack?"  
"Uh, no, I didn't know that." How else could he respond?  
"What if it could take three hours?"  
"Annie, are you okay?" His question was technically left unanswered, so he repeated it. His mind was unfocused and her non sequiturs weren't helping him find an anchor. He just hoped she wouldn't force him to continue his spoken word cover of Smooth Criminal.  
"Ugh, forget it, I've said too much anyway. I guess I just... I just needed to hear a familiar voice, you know? Life is so crazy right now. Sorry if I'm bothering you, but I just needed to hear a familiar voice. To be reminded of simpler times. This is stupid. I can't talk long, but how are you doing? Are you okay?"  
"Sure, you know. No problems here." He lied for a living. Or he used to, in his legal career. Maybe he still did, in a way. "I won't keep you."  
"Oh, yeah, thanks for the talk. Tell Britta I said hi for me?"  
"Sure thing. See ya."  
"Bye-" He hung up.  
It had been one of those conversations where he was just going through the motions. After the tough class he'd just had, he wasn't prepared for the emotions insisted onto his mind by the phone call. He decided he needed to treat himself.

After a long, hard day, where else would Jeff go but his favorite bar? As he walked through the doors, the bartender greeted him with a great big grin. "Hey, Jeff!"  
"Hey, D'Arcy. I'll have the usual."


End file.
